Falter: Volume Twelve: The Journals of Meghan McDonnell, #12

By Meghan McDonnell:

Minor: Volume One

Novice: Volume Two

Limbo: Volume Three

Elsewhere: Volume Four

Faithful: Volume Five

Vespers: Volume Six

Onward: Volume Seven

Sojourn: Volume Eight

Ingress: Volume Nine

Witness: Volume Ten

Listless: Volume Eleven

Falter: Volume Twelve

Amateur: Volume Thirteen

Bearings: Volume Fourteen

Acolyte: Volume Fifteen

Believer: Volume Sixteen

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FALTER: THE JOURNALS OF

MEGHAN MCDONNELL

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Volume Twelve

Meghan McDonnell

Copyright 2021 Meghan K. McDonnell

Note

All names and identifying characteristics have been changed to protect the innocent and the guilty. I have solely recorded my interpretations and opinions of all events. Certain place names have been changed. Aside from minor edits, all else is as I wrote it at the time. If you’re new to the journals, welcome. If you’re a veteran, thank you for coming back for more. You’ll find references to songs, books, films, and more throughout the text, and a playlist at the end.

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February 2007

Thursday, February 15, 2007

I’m melancholy. On Monday, I was hopeful, exited, ready to map my life. It comes and goes. The new job is fine, same as the rest. Part of me says, Why are you doing this again when you know it’s not for you? Another says, You can do this. Deal. Another still says, You can show up and get a lot done without giving your mind over to it. We had a meeting on my first day. I looked around the room and thought my usual mental diatribe: Are you people really passionate about fundraising and data sheets? This is what you crave to do when you wake up?

I can’t stop thinking of Chan Marshall. She fascinates me. I identify with her. But I think she’s a messed-up chickadee. It’s none of my concern because she was kind enough to record albums for me to hear and she’s not a personal friend, so her self-destruction is her business. I read an article about her in Magnet. It painted her as a caged animal, trading in alcohol for heaps of sugar, tea, caffeine, and the usual nicotine.

I keep thinking of her song The Moon. It has grown on me. The lyrics reminds me of how I have felt at times in my life: Everyone says they know you better than you-know-who ... Will you still be around when they put me six feet underground? Will the big bad beautiful you be around?

Beth from Bellingham and I have emailed each other a few times. She asked me why I disappeared in Bellingham and why I wanted nothing to do with her. I told her that I always want to know her. I said that after our writers’ group, I became over-sensitive and withdrew. I was depressed and drinking a lot and felt I needed to insulate myself in our apartment. Beth put songs she wrote on Myspace. They are beautiful.

I can’t make myself run today. I couldn’t yesterday either, but I walked to Queen Anne for work and will again today.

My thoughts lately: music, a home away from here, the compulsion to create good things. What stops me? I am working on my story about survival camp to submit to a blog that seems legit and This American Life -y. They pay if they publish your work. I’m insecure about writing for something like that. It’s a good challenge for me. I revisit and edit the piece, weighing what is essential and what is blather.

I googled old school people last night. After hearing Beth’s voice sing, I got curious about people I used to know who write or play music. I wanted to see if they are making names for themselves. Lucas’s friend Jeremy had art openings in New York. Stella has worked on film and TV projects as an assistant. I couldn’t find anything on Oliver, but I found photos of Matt Warner.

I dreamed about Lucas last night. It was odd. Isn’t it always. We were with my Mom and Lucas’s wife. Strange landscapes. One was an African safari, featuring hippos and lions. At one point, the four of us were sitting on a high bookshelf. The three of them left and (this is a recurring theme in my dreams) I had to determine how to get down safely.

I am in high places in my dreams, on something shaky up high and I have to problem-solve to find a way down. I am always scared in these dreams, but I always find a way down.

I like Amos Lee’s song Black River. I’d like to learn to play it, tone it down.

I’ve got all this energy. This pleading, whimpering heart that has so much to show. I need to run, to find a way to direct my energy.

Love, Meghan

(later on) I teared up three times today. I just recovered from a bawling session. I had laundry to put in the dryer, so I slapped sense into myself and got her done.

I feel like a wacky, contorted human being. I am an emotional case.

Tilda and I are getting coffee tomorrow morning and going for a walk with her baby boy. I can’t wait to meet him.

Before Carson left for a meeting earlier, I ran out of cigarettes. He said, We’re out? He said he’s worried about me smoking because I do it too much. Don’t I know but it’s different when someone tells you. And I don’t feel like he’s a hypocrite because he can go days (if he wants) without smoking and doesn’t sit around like a chain the way I do. That’s that on that for now because quitting feels remote to me. I know it’s terrible. I know I must stop. But I’m feeling big time and cigarettes are my ultimate crutch.

Carson asked me if I’m feeling nostalgic today because when he got home from work, I was making soup and I put on Ryan Adams’s The Bar is a Beautiful Place and Time (The Revelator) by Gillian Welch. So I guess I’m feeling nostalgic. I used to always be and I rarely am anymore.

I don’t understand nostalgia because I don’t think anything ever really ends or goes away. Our lives rotate. They evolve.

That dream about Lucas shook me and got me thinking about him. Why? Always my question. I’m vulnerable. I want to be strong and I’m only vulnerable.

I want to talk to Cassidy. She is wise. She knows me. She doesn’t judge me. At least she doesn’t tell me if she does, which may be as important.

I cried today when I put music to and made a song with a line that I wrote a while ago: And it’s not so important to me to be the pretty one, though my soul says, ‘I’m pretty.’ I want to sing.

When I cried earlier, I sat with my elbows resting on the edge of the piano. I was lost and crying. I played one of my songs. Then I got up and looked in the mirror at my sad, pretty face – sad and red and scrunched. Why is this happening? I asked.

I used to invite this emotional havoc. Now I try to keep it where it belongs: in this journal and on the piano.

My brain is like a slideshow. It clicks through stills: a cabin, an empty stage at an audition, a California coffeeshop in sunlight with ice water reflecting on tabletops, piano keys, a garden.

When Chan Marshall sings, We can all be free, maybe not with words, maybe not with looks, but in your mind, I agree with her. But I wonder what the use is of this beauty and misery in me if it can’t get out to others.

And Lucas. I don’t know. We’re married! Not to each other! For a reason!

Is this going to follow me for the rest of my life? Along with the slideshow, there is music constantly in my head.

Love, Meghan

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Monday, February 19, 2007

I need to write about something that has me in knots and sends shoots of nervousness through me. I have not written of it directly because of its implications and because I am worried it will be discovered. But if I’m not allowed to put my thoughts and emotions in here, where does that leave me? If I cannot look honestly into myself, whom is that helping?

I am writing this. I need to be honest. I’m thinking of Lucas. It is consuming me. I am still in love with him. He comes back to me, my mind, my heart. I push it away and it comes back with a stronger force.

I don’t know if I am being nostalgic or deluded or if I am unhappy with my life and so am using him as a fantastical escape. I don’t know if I am mourning the loss of youthful passion. But what I feel strongest and deepest is that I am not over him. I don’t know how I ended up here.

I am married. He’s married. We are not married to each other. This is not new. I have been through periods when I cannot stop thinking about him. Something feels wrong to me and I feel like this is what it is.

I feel like Lucas is my soulmate. This may be in my head. This may be a case of I’ve made my decisions and there’s no going back. But I do not know what to do with these feelings and emotions. They have taken over me now and at other times in my life. It scares the living hell out of me.

I think that something in me years ago said, You and Lucas will part ways and you will panic about it throughout your life.

I am aware this could be a phase. I am also aware that it is one I will revisit for the rest of my life.

I can’t bear any hurt this causes Carson.

Love, Meghan

Wednesday, February 21, 2007

I spent 11 hours with Cassidy yesterday. She, Sylvie, and Sylvie’s friend Kayla picked me up in the morning. We ran errands and then went to their house. She painted Sylvie’s room pink. When the paint dried, we put her room back together. Cassidy and I sat at her kitchen table and talked for hours. She was supportive of me and what I’m going through.

Carson picked me up at midnight. When I got in the car, I told him we had to talk. I told him I was sad and hurting. I told him I love him. I said I’m unhappy and I’ve been thinking about Lucas and I don’t know if I’m using him as an escape or if I’m still in love with him. I said I didn’t know if it makes it worse or better, but I haven’t spoken to or seen Lucas for over four years. We were silent for the rest of the drive. It poured rain. I kept looking at Carson.

When we got home, Carson asked if I wanted tea. He said, I really don’t want to talk about this. I want to read Louis L’Amour and go to sleep. But we sat at the table for a few minutes.

He said, I’m not angry or jealous of a 22-year-old kid who rock climbs. Last I saw Lucas, he wasn’t too different from me – some guy getting older and pudgy. Do you think you’re just obsessing over your past? Is that why you’ve been looking up people you used to know?

He said, I hate how you get so involved in your past sometimes.

The last he said about it for the night: Don’t worry much about me.

I said, What does that mean? You’re my husband.

He said, It sounds like you’ve got a lot you need to figure out.

We got into bed.

I was freezing. I slept in two fleeces and a long-sleeved shirt and thick socks. I smelled like campfire from Cassidy’s backyard and it comforted me.

At Cassidy’s, I realized I can’t stand the dark. I asked Carson to leave his bedside lamp on while we slept.

Before we fell asleep, I told Carson about the light and dark thing. I told him about when we drove my brother John to LMU for college. We went on a family road trip that summer and every night, my Mom needed heaps of pillows around her. She needed two under her head, one at her feet, one behind her, and one to hold at every hotel we stayed at. We gave her a hard time about it, but she needed comfort and security. Her oldest born and only son was leaving the nest.

I put Suzy (Carson’s stuffed animal dog from childhood) and Binkus (my pink security blanket from childhood) next to me and draped an arm lightly over Carson. He didn’t pull away.

Carson didn’t say goodbye before he left this morning. I talked to him on the phone before I went running earlier and he said he was having a bad day. Then he said we need to get him out of his job. I don’t know if I can help him with that.

I wonder if I made a huge mistake. But I needed to tell him. It made me pull away from him. It’s too late to go back.

Cass is a wise comfort to me. She doesn’t judge. I told her I keep feeling like I am going to die soon, and that this will all come to a head and blow over. I think I feel that way because I’m afraid of this, so I am escaping or going to fantasyland about how I can be erased.

It makes me think of Scott Peterson or the chick who faked her own kidnapping right before she was supposed to get married. It’s like these people do crazy, awful things because they think it will take attention away from them or they can turn it into something so obscene and grotesque that it will cover up their own issues. They try to turn the focus away from themselves because they feel so much pressure from family and friends and society. But they end up ruining lives and bringing more unwanted attention to themselves than if they’d just said, You know, this isn’t working. I need to do something else.

It’s weird because I understand what made them do crazy things. But it’s necessary to face the music and do what you need to do without the circus tricks, psychopathy, or subverting the situation at hand. How does it get so bad that saying how you feel seems worse than killing someone or faking your own kidnapping?

I called my Mom last night. I cried and told her what’s going on. She said, They’re just thoughts. You don’t need to share them with Carson. Why do you think you’re going through this? Is it a longing for your younger self?

I said, Maybe. I don’t know.

She said we all have rich interior lives but we don’t need to share them with others.

I told Cassidy about that conversation and mused that one of the curses of parenthood and generations is that you raise your children in a different time than you grew up in. You give them freedom and teach them to listen to themselves. Your children wind up being able to do things you couldn’t do in your own life, with more freedom than you had.

No matter what, Carson and I were at a standstill and a bad place. Things have needed to change. I have no idea if this will strengthen us or if I have done serious damage.

Today, I want to work on my survival camp story and send it in. I feel frightfully genuine and emotional. I told Cassidy that I shake every day. But I’m solid. I told her I went for a walk last Thursday night. I cried and looked at the sky and asked, Why is this happening? I’m crazy! Then I said to myself, Don’t tell yourself you’re crazy. Listen.

I asked God why. I thought of Jesus. I asked Him why I didn’t get an answer from God. Instead of a reply, I saw a warmth and a light and felt Jesus say, Human beings suffer. He said it with compassion and a smile.

I told Cassidy that I think writers and artists get a rep for being bad in relationships: impulsive, erratic, etc. but I think they are more in touch with themselves and are such seekers that they can’t blindly and contentedly ignore what they go through.

I have changed. I have grown these past four years. Carson has facilitated that. He has let me be by myself and has given me room to grow and discover. He doesn’t challenge me but he provides me with a foundation where I am free to explore from.

I think of Joanna Newsom lyrics and Thoreau’s Know your own bone. Gnaw at it. Bury it. Unearth it. Gnaw at it still.

Do I assume Lucas has answers for me?

I can’t stop stretching. My run was hard today and I said to myself during it, Well, then it must be really important to do this right now.

I’m stronger than I give myself credit for. I have no desire to drink. I want to be keen and clear, aware and present.

Cassidy asked me how I was able to get through my weekend at Whistler with Carson, the Bedfords, and the Stoppards. I told her I committed to being present. That weekend was interesting as usual. The comingling of personalities and egos and emotions. I became impassioned on a couple topics that came up and that made me feel like a social leper.

Last Friday night, when we got there, we met for dinner. Jackie sat next to me and told me she thinks about suicide. I didn’t realize how intensely she struggles with depression. It makes sense, knowing now.

It’s strange because Jackie reveals things to me and then it’s like she holds that against me. That’s true for a lot of people and me.

Cassidy told me I am adept with the A to Z of human emotions. People seek me out and tell me things they don’t talk about with others because even if I haven’t got through it or experienced it firsthand, I know what it feels like.

We skied on Saturday and it was fun. My thighs burned like a mother and I could feel heat generating from them. I rode one chair with Whitney and Jackie and it was great fun. Whitney said, Meghan, what are you talking about? You said you couldn’t ski and you’re a great skier.

Skiing trips me out. All of it. Chairlifts built into the side of a mountain and people going downhill on small, narrow slats with poles? And it’s so exhilarating. I want to get better and be more daring. But my favorite part of the day was skiing down the mellow cat tracks with Jackie. I inhaled the fresh, cold, invigorating mountain air.

I think I come on too strong for Whitney and Jackie’s tastes sometimes.

I finished the back of a cardigan I’m making for myself.

Carson and I stopped in Bellingham on our way home from Canada. I bought prints for our walls, Silent Spring by Rachel Carson, and Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg at Henderson’s. Carson got books, too. We went to Rudy’s for pizza and then drove home.

Love, Meghan

(later on) Everyone’s wondering (me among them) if I am obsessing over my past or longing for younger days. What I want to know: what is past/memory and what is life? Do things ever die and go away? Is anything intransient?

I had an idea of love and purity and realness. I believed in transcending the ugly. I thought I lost all of it with Lucas, but I was wrong. It’s very much alive in me.

Bill Callahan sings, Why is everybody lookin’ at me like there’s something fundamentally wrong? I feel like I sing, Why am I lookin’ at everyone like there’s something fundamentally wrong?

I was stubborn, clinging, unceasing in my beliefs about love. I was romantic and open-hearted. My friends patted me on the head about it.

I remember when John came home and told us he and Kim were getting married. I said, What about Molly and Cara? (Two of John’s exes.)

I asked if Kim is the love of his life. I didn’t like the implications when he said (about marrying Kim), It makes sense.

I wanted to scream, No. I wanted him to say Kim turns him inside out. It scared me that people get to a point when it’s time to get married because it makes sense. It feels clinical.

I am so tired and so cold and have been since last night. I feel drained, but not bad. I want to go tanning, to lay naked in heat and light and doze. I want to be warm.

Love, Meghan

(later on) I need to get Regina Spektor’s album. I heard her play a song late at night on TV while we at Whistler.

Eloise and Marie came over to craft last night. I’ve been high and low and confused. I’m on a downswing. I emailed Terrence last night and heard back from him today. He sent his phone number. I worked from 8 to 2 and called T on my walk home. We talked for an hour and a half. I walked through our neighborhood, then sat in sunlight at the P-Patch around the corner from our apartment.

I’m obsessed with details. I don’t want to miss or overlook anything. Cass wonders how I can hang out with people as though nothing is going on. I don’t know. I spend most my life disbelieving how any of us tromp through daily life without stopping to go, "What is going on here?" I wish I could stop.

Terrence and I talked about nostalgia (big topic for me these days). I explained what I was feeling about Lucas. Terrence is a good listener. It was comforting to hear his voice. He reminded me of my brother a couple times. He was supportive. He said, Meghan, I am a romantic. I understand what happens when it comes to your heart.

Terrence sees Lucas all the time. He has dinner with him and Lucas’s wife Maggie on the regular.

I told Terrence it’s hard to verbalize what’s going on because it has been inside me for so long. He kept saying, There’s only one person who can tell you what you’re needing to know.

I told Terrence that Carson knows. I said Carson is wonderful and gives me space and freedom and time. I told Terrence I don’t want anyone to be hurt. He asked if I could write a letter to Lucas. I said I don’t want that permanence, especially because of his wife.

Terrence said Maggie is very protective